


Nothing I Can Deny

by JeanSouth



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 08:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4869407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanSouth/pseuds/JeanSouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Midorima does not want to marry a king to start with, but wishes to even less when he finds his heart to lie elsewhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing I Can Deny

On a purely logical level, Midorima understood.

On the emotional level just under it, carefully sealed by years of tutors and sore backs, he wanted to rebel. Seated on horseback, Midorima scowled at the snow and pulled his cloak tighter around him, the carriage long since lost to the rocky roads of Selen in winter.

The land was as damnable and cold as its inhabitants were said to be; pale and reclusive, but anything thriving in these lands was sure to be strong enough to be a threat if only they so chose to be. Lifting a hand to wave off the captain of his guard, sent to ensure he arrived safe and remained safe once there, he schooled his features into something resembling boredom more than childish anger.

He did not want to marry the king. It sounded petulant even in his own mind – how many men would protest marriage to a king of a nation by all means known as not one to trifle with? Not many he would hazard to guess. But for all accounts and purposes, the king was... not elderly, but older than him by far. It made sense, after all; for an alliance, it was better to marry him off to the king as foreign consort than to marry him to the prince and prevent heirs from being born.

The only thing he could not let go of to fully see the rights of the situation was the idiotic desire to marry for love. Princes, in general, did not marry for love.

“If you should scowl any harder, the tree will burst into flame,” Momoi remarked from his left side. When had she arrived? She could be damnably quiet when she chose to be, which was not often, and made the skill all the more unexpected. All the same he was grateful to have her; the guard accompanying him would lay down their lives to keep him safe, but they would not give him the easy companionship of another noble.

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean,” he replied, voice muffled by the hood and scarves drawn up to protect his face; Flame take it all, he hated the cold so! There seemed to be no end to the stuff, falling to create thin sheets and keep him trapped in the crisp white hell forever.

“I'm sure you don't,” Momoi laughed, and seemed to have no issue with the cold. He supposed she wouldn't, when she hailed from Selen herself, brought over by her parents' desire to travel. It was she who had encouraged him to push for alliance, after all. “I promise the castle is warm, even if at present it seems like nothing will ever be warm again.”

Her smile was gentle, and appreciated, but did little to soothe his ire. They should have been present well over a day ago, but his men were unaccustomed to the rough terrain. He had just settled for glaring at the snow, contemplating begging the Holy Flame to burn the lot of it, when an entourage of riders crested a hill he hadn't even noticed when lost in his thoughts.

The foreign riders – no, the native riders, he corrected himself. While here, it was he that was foreign. The riders held the banner of their great red army, said to be indestructible under their princely leader. They were wrapped as he was, but their coverings were deliberate and dark. Gone was the heavy plate mail of his homelands, and instead toughened, treated leather covered the men, fur making itself known here and there in the thick hoods, on the inner side of the shawls wrapped so expertly only their eyes seemed visible. They made an impressive, if terrifying sight. Splashes of red, and brown, and black on the pure landscape.

He drew his own shawl down as their leader – he presumed by the deep red cloak, wholly unique to the other men – drew close to them, and barely kept from swearing as the cold wind assaulted his lips, leaving them chapped and dry. How he wished for hot, mulled wine and sweet cakes. He meant to offer pleasantries when he looked up.

Those eyes were something else entirely, he thought as he stared, vaguely aware that his mouth was poised to speak. One eye bright as the Holy Flame, the other cat-yellow, the pupil slit vertically. They were captivating. He found he couldn't stop staring until they broke away first, and then were turned away from him. He fought not to ask them to return so he might look more, look closer at their fascinating brightness. Parts of him suddenly felt too hot in the extensive clothing he'd donned.

As a gloved hand landed on his arm and led him back through the path trekked open by the native riders, Midorima fervently wished the king was widely misconstrued, and had eyes like jewels.

-

The king did not, in fact, have eyes like jewels. He had red eyes, both of them, that regarded him as if he were vaguely interesting, and vaguely tasty. Midorima wondered if this was how prize cows felt, and nearly wanted to apologize for their discomfort.

He had known, before travelling, that he would become a walking banquet for his betrothed; signed and done when he first offered up his wrist to let his blood flow freely. It was as much a ceremony, the first time, as wedding vows before a priest of the fire. His betrothed would be expected to feed only from him, as was custom when one of them married a human.

“Your castle is most welcoming,” Midorima forced himself to say, acutely aware of the other guests at their table. At a glance, he could identify most. At the head of the table, of course his new king; Midorima to his left. To the right of the king sat the old queen's sister, watching him speculatively. He had the unsettling feeling he was being judged for his worth.

Further down were ambassadors to the six lands around them, the seventh glaringly lacking to someone from other lands. Selen and Roje were only divided by a great river that knelled at a point close to the sea; Selen had never forgiven an attempted invasion, and had continued to slaughter trespassers as they had during those first wars. It was what had made their lands aware of Selen, and had earned them their name as blood drinkers, the tales carried far by those who had seen their comrades feasted on like cattle.

Even now, as he looked subtly around the hall, he could see place-settings where no plates were drawn, but only elaborately carved mugs filled with dark, steaming liquid. From the king's place it smelled of cloves, and something distinctly human he refused to think of for too long.

“We are glad to hear it,” the king's sister-in-law answered in his stead, noticing that he seemed none to eager to answer Midorima's question while his eyes gazed across the hall, seeking something. “Have you settled in to your rooms, Highness?”

She was a pretty woman, human, and in her later years. Briefly, he considered making of her an ally.

“Yes,” he smiled as best he could. Perfunctory smiles had ever been his weak point: indifference feigned or true, came easy, but he could not pretend for joy when he had none. His rooms, at least, were worth the effort for some. They were lovely things on the third floor of the castle, offering views of the lake, frozen and grand to the east, and the forest, un-ending and vast to his north. “They are truly beautiful. I am honoured to have such beautiful rooms in the castle. They must be sorely coveted for the views they bring. It was only the cold that drew me from lingering overlong on my balcony.”

The balcony was a grand thing of itself; wrapping around the castle where it cornered, with heavy iron furniture settled firmly into place. Currently, a few straggling roses lingered on the edge, but with the heavy frost only the sturdy trellises remained in place. A security hazard, the captain of his guard had bellowed with a sour face, quickly quieted by the steward assuring him the only way to access the trellis was from the rooms below: those belonging to the elusive prince currently testing his father's ire.

“Indeed,” the lady across from him smiled, her fur-lined dresses keeping her far warmer than his inadequate winter clothing kept him. When the week passed, he would ask the tailors for assistance, but would not yet seem too reliant. “And so close to the prince. You may yet become fast friends.”

Something in her eyes seemed to believe the opposite as the king's mouth turned down further. All said, the queen had been believed to be his better half, drawing out that which belonged in a ruler.

“The prince, indeed,” he murmured, sipping from the cup in front of him. “He was to be introduced this evening, as is the customer for your welcoming banquet. I had ordered to leave off the patrols and allow his men to do it, but my words have gone unheeded.”

It was a risky thing to say at a table of ambassadors – that the son defied the father – but Midorima did not think any of them would risk becoming the target of that ire.

“It is quite alright,” Midorima reached out, and with the greatest effort, laid his hand upon the king's. “I find it admirable that even in this wretched snow, the prince cares so for his people that he patrols for their safety.”

Bursts of laughter echoed down the table, startling him and seeming to distract the king.

“It will only grow worse,” he reassured. “We are yet in the start of the long winter.”

Divine Embers, Midorima started to think. He wanted to go home. Yet something in the back of his mind lingered, and insisted he would rather see those snake eyes again, and feel the warmth they had radiated when he was passed from legion commander to castle steward.

-

Come a week later, Midorima found himself bored. The castle inhabitants were too mired in politics to pay him much heed until he was married, the king's wavering decision standing out starkly in the gossip. Could he marry again after his late wife? What if he did not? The king had only one son, and would not choose to forego heirs.

He sighed, only for a moment, and cut the sound off before it could fully come to fruition. In desperation, he had resorted to the library. Often-times had he found solace in books after reprimands from tutors, and he did not seem to want to break the habit any time in the close future.

The library was grand, taking up half the eastern wing that was split between scholar and soldier. Even now, when evening came late, he could feel the chill in the halls where the grand doors had been opened to let the patrolling troops return. Part of him sorely wished they would use a side entrance, but had quashed the thought as rude before even the most skilled telepath would be able to pluck it out.

In need of a blanket, he strode to the door to the hallway, stopping short once there. Of course, the soldiers he had just thought of. Snow and salt crusted to the boots and armour of the hundreds of men pouring back in from the perimeters, their idle chatter in their easy accents too difficult for his skill to pick up. He had been schooled in the court language, not the common.

A horse stopped before him, the other soldiers weaving to give him space, going round rather than yelling. Peculiar. A soldier holding up a line at home was as likely to be yelled at as shoved in a moat if he lingered too long. His thoughts broke when the deep red cape fluttered close to him again, and those captivating eyes stared down at him.

“Do you find our kingdom passing?” the voice belonging to them asked, smooth and cultured, as hot as the Holy Flame. The blasphemous thought did not even register with a desire to repent.

“More than passing,” Midorima replied, his breath near stuck in his throat. It was in part, he thought, the intensity in those eyes. They burned like nothing else here. “Your library is quite grand, though I find myself at a loss of where to begin.”

The eyes narrowed at him for a moment, a feeling flickering through them for just a moment before it was gone.

“Later,” he told Midorima, the command in it final, as though there was not option but that Midorima would bend to his whim. “I will send books you will enjoy. The red one, read it first.”

With that he was gone, blending in to the mass, his red cloak the only hint he had ever been there. Who was he, to command so easily? Speak so addictingly? Suddenly, Midorima could not wait to go to his room and find books there, see if their scent would be that of his soldier, snowy and hot.

With trouble, he forced himself towards the kitchens, aware the books would not appear in but an instant, no matter how he wished to see what they contained. The kitchens were full of life, hot and bustling, and they did not seem to notice him until he strove to slip past.

“You're no server,” a portly woman raised both her eyebrows at him. Midorima loathed to order food, as through no fault of the servers, he always found himself with exactly what he was not craving. He nodded, striving to appear thoroughly chastened, but she only laughed. “Take a platter, help yourself. Watch the cauldron in the corner, it is not for you and I.”

As she spoke, she handed him a heavy silver platter with an empty jug and a goblet; she had clearly guessed he was dining alone.

“Off with you, princeling,” she winked as he hesitated over the sweet buns. It wouldn't do to indulge too often, but... if he was to indulge in his mysterious soldier already, he may well make asking the Holy Flame for forgiveness worth it.

Loading his platter with sweetbreads and fruits, he stopped near a stern looking man, giving orders near a doorway to a steep set of steps. He glanced up as Midorima approached, lips pursing as he tried to place him.

“I am afraid I have gotten ahead of myself,” Midorima tried to brush off his sin. “And have no clue as to how to pair this with one of your fine wines.”

He held his platter before him, though he was tempted to hide it. It looked like a child had piled the foods onto it.

“The princeling has a sweet tooth,” the woman from before called, no mocking in her voice as the man's lips twitched in to a smile.

“I will fetch you something not too heavy,” he reassured, and sent a servant to fetch wine in lightning-quick words. When he returned, the man hesitated before placing it on the platter. “A servant will help you-”

He cut off as Midorima shook his head and thanked him, slowly walking the halls back to his rooms. Taking it himself, he was slower, took more time for the books to arrive. The guards opened his door, their confused looks passed in silence.

“A servant came by, Highness,” one of them went to tell him, standing in the doorway to close it behind him. “We checked and deemed the books he carried safe.”

He hesitated for a moment, though spat it out at Midorima's impatient look.

“We believe some of the books are not...” he trailed off, looking for the words. “Strictly allowed to be circulated anymore.”

With that he scurried back out to the hall, leaving Midorima to think, and stare the pile of four books. Why would he be sent forbidden books? The voice in the back of his head reminded him of the command to read them, and he could no more resist its pull than he could cease breathing altogether. Shucking his boots, he ensured the fire was stoked high, settling in the large, wing-backed chair close to it.

The wine was heady and sweet, and matched the red book he carefully opened. It as worn, well-read, and appeared to be poetry. A poet as well as a fighter, then.

Slowly, the fire waned as he lost himself to the pages, mind wrapped up in words he had learned but never seen used in such ways, his thoughts forcing them to sound as beautiful in his own language as they did in their native. He only noticed his fire, and the chill in the room, when he could no longer read. The doors stood just a slight agape to the balcony, letting in the cold.

He stood to close them, snapping the doors shut, and only then became aware he was not alone. He could not think he would have been so fixed upon the book he would have missed his lumbering, rattling guards. He turned, eyes searching the room for the intruder. He had been foolish to not carry a dagger, and slowly went to his dresser to fetch one when he saw no shadows cast over him.

Halfway, beyond the mirror by his bed, he found himself crowded, the body pressing his to the wall smaller but stronger, having come quick as the night.

He found himself captivated again then by the pert nose revealed by the loosened head-wrapping, the high cheekbones made visible to him, another clue to the puzzle of his soldier. His mind tossed and turned, lost in the words from his books, lost in the scent of snow and fire.

“What do you desire?” he asked, the words coming soft, having stood out to him as his fingers had brushed the page.

“To be with you in hell,” his soldier replied, dutifully, seemingly proud of him – for what? For remembering? There was no chance he had not remembered it.

“It seems your words bode both of us ill,” his hands, unlistening to his command, rose to feel at the high cheekbones, the plush lips bared before him. A lovely, handsome face. He should not do this – he was promised to another, but none had ever lit a fire in him so with only a look, and the more he revealed, the further Midorima fell down a rabbit hole.

“Show me how men kiss you,” the soldier bade him, his own fingers tangling in Midorima's hair, stopping the whispered protest that men did not kiss him. “Show me how you kiss.”

He leaned down at that, brushing his lips softly over those commanding his thoughts, and gasped as teeth bit sharply at his lip – but not enough to draw blood. His soldier was a drinker – suddenly the idea of being a banquet seemed more appealing than he had ever thought it to be. His lips were savaged and abused by the sharp teeth and soothing lips until he parted them to allow entrance.

As the hot tongue explored him, he tasted unmistakably blood, a faintest touch of mint. He felt plundered, and his soldier made that such a very fine thing to be.

“If only I had a way,” his soldier parted from him, followed by the fleeting thought that that was the way Midorima wanted to be kissed. “You would be mine ere the morning was out.”

The words stirred his heart, something deeper, closer to the soul.

“Handsome,” his soldier said, placing kisses along his neck. “Smart, in pursuit of knowledge.”

His kiss was a firm nip that time. “Too good for that father of mine.”

The nip faded under a kiss, and the words churned in his mind as his soldier was gone as quickly as he had come. No, he supposed. His prince.

-

It took after that only hours for Momoi to gather information for him, and still his angry pacing.

“He is a prince, yes,” Momoi confirmed for him, her papers neat in front of her on his desk. He wanted to pitch the entire thing from the balcony. “But not as you think he is.”

He stopped at that, glancing to her from his position by the doors to the balcony, unsubtly left unlocked.

“He is the elder son-” she held up a hand to stop his protests. “But born from another man, before his mother's hand was given to the king in marriage. She brought him from her keep as the son of a handmaiden, but as he got older, she could no longer deny he was hers. Too much of him was in her.”

She rifled through her papers a moment more.

“The king adopted him not long after, to avoid shame to his name, and said the child was his,” she scoffed for a moment, and he had half a mind to do this same. His prince looked nothing like that oaf. “Officially, he is still the king's son out of wedlock, disqualifying him for the throne, but his younger brother adores and dotes on him, by all reports.”

Midorima tugged the fur collar of his dinner jacket closer to his neck, and wished the fire could burn hotter.

“I cannot imagine growing up the source of rumours,” Midorima grimaced, and set to pacing again. He could not help but think something rash would happen; those who played with the Holy Flame's embers would burn when they flared into fire, and if the Holy Flame did not reside in his prince's soul, his mother was a damned milkmaid. Those eyes lit up brighter than the priests back home.

“Nor can I,” Momoi agreed with him, sitting back to curl up in the desk chair, by all means at home despite their meeting being the height of impropriety, alone in his rooms. “I cannot imagine the king being kind to a child he must pretend was his own. It's little more than rumours, but they say the prince leads the red army only to escape the thumb of the king, and stand before him a man in his own right.”

He could not argue the assessment. He could not see his prince – no, Seijuurou – settling for being a man only by virtue of his bloodline. With a sigh, they both subsided to silence – there was no plan to make when neither of them were even sure of the outcome.

A week later saw Midorima married, a hard glint in the king's eye as he bent to take Midorima's wrist, the bite painful and stinging, the feeling of his blood rushing from his veins unpleasant. As he stood, the king's arm draped over Midorima's shoulders, turning them full circle to wave to the masses around them, eager to see their king married. They stopped and the cause for the glint made itself known – Seijuurou, face shuttered and unimpressed, turning to walk from the betrothal hall. Deeply, inside the part of his soul that longer for snake eyes, Midorima wanted to follow.

-

“He is dishonouring you, with her,” a voice told him come spring, the cold winter quick to fade this year. He would know that voice anywhere, had heard it frequent as the counterpart to his own voice as their poetry became a natural-sounding thing.

“I am aware,” Midorima replied, and moved his books from the library settee. It had only been a month, and near every night Seijuurou had visited him with stolen, bruising kisses, but had not once touched his neck again. Too great a temptation; he had said, a hint of truth on his face. He had followed to say he had never done something he had not intended to do. “The courts are aware.”

He closed his eyes, and tried to forget library clerks could find them at any moment. It was a risk, to be seen together when gossip said the king and his son had argued at length the night before his wedding.

“He dishonours you,” Seijuurou repeated, his eyes wider than normal, a worrying sort of madness to them.

“If I were to divorce him,” Midorima protested, unhappy to have to say it was what he most wanted. “Our treatise-”

He was cut off by a noise from Seijuurou.

“If the courts and the crown prince denounce him, he will be forced to step down,” he said, his hands moving to tangle his fingers with Midorima's. “Do not say they will not fuss over it so.”

He leaned over to kiss, his teeth nipping softly at Midorima's lower lip.

“My will is absolute,” he whispered into their kiss, such conviction it could not be denied anymore than their first sparks could be.

“As you wish,” Midorima whispered back, not sure his voice would hold. He had not let another care for him as such since he was a babe, always demanding to make his own choices, his own arguments. He tilted his head away, to the side. “Then drink, for your strength, and defend my honour.”

The last thing he saw before the now-pleasant sting of a bite, the heat of a tongue drawing over his skin, was Seijuurou's eyes, blazing brightly.


End file.
